By Diya Biswal
If I had a flower
for every thought of you,
My own garden
I could forever saunter through.
Through which
I could prove to you
that you mean loads,
how the love grew within me,
it implodes,
like a fruit from the bud
of a thriving tree,
outstretching its arms
holding the sky full of promises.
If only you were near,
we’d amble each day.
No distance do I fear,
my garden will still stay
every hour
every minute
every second of the ray,
as if light dripped through the leaves
like honey on glass.
From day’s bloom
to night’s doom,
your cruel words
fill up my tomb,
like a flood in a flume.
They run through my mind,
making me blind
helping me believe
I’m rotting inside.
I try, but it’s never enough,
never enough, it’s always tough.
My actions don’t seem to show,
I wonder why, just why, I don’t grow.
I forgive and forget
same as usual,
leading to certain regret
response so casual.
I will not contrite
for neither will you,
but it’s all right
since none have a clue.
I don’t want to go with such ease,
I want it to stay
like the roots of the trees
in our garden’s lay.
Our garden of weeds
Our garden of seeds
unfurls like no other before,
so much more to explore,
in our garden that bleeds…
But bleed it shall
as the sap from Maple,
sweet like stolen kisses
sticky like molasses,
from plethora of memories
of frosty wintery blisses.
The sun was eclipsed,
ashamed it once watched us flourish
lively breathing shoots now wilted.
I watered your thorns
while you counted your roses.
Velvet, fragrant exposes.
A garden that breathed
now gasps for air.
A garden that believed
now lies striped and bare.
The garden that bloomed before;
now decomposes.